


The Fine Art of Distraction

by BonitaBreezy



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Established Relationship, I'm just saying, M/M, you can blame Adree for this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-29 22:21:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/692134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BonitaBreezy/pseuds/BonitaBreezy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil hates paperwork, but he loves the way Clint looks when he does it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fine Art of Distraction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jeremyruiner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeremyruiner/gifts).



> This is for the lovely Adree, in honor of our late night ranting.

“Agent Coulson, can you sign off on these for me?”

“Agent Coulson, R&D wants to see you, something about the paperwork for the approval of Agent Romanov’s new field uniform?”

“Phil, I need your sitrep from the mission in Calcutta _two weeks ago_.”

“I reviewed your plan for Beta team’s op next week, it looks fine.  It needs to be submitted formally to SHIELD first thing Monday morning.”

“We need a sitrep on those Hydra agents who were masquerading as cops…”

Phil loved his job.  He really, really did.  He helped people and saved the world in his own way, but when it came down to it, the fact was that SHIELD was a bureaucratic agency, and as such, paperwork was required every time someone so much as sneezed.  He knew that paperwork was necessary.  It kept structure and revealed patterns that they might miss otherwise, but that didn’t stop Phil from hating it.  His hatred for paperwork flared with a passion he couldn’t even begin to put in to words.

Unfortunately, his position of authority came with a need to review and sign off on things, to write long-winded descriptions of every mission he oversaw, and to convince everyone under his direct command to do their paperwork too.  For the longest time, Fridays had been the bane of his existence, because it meant that he couldn’t put off the paperwork anymore.  Everything had to be filled out and turned in by the Monday after the op, and he always put everything off to the last minute, like maybe ignoring it would make it all go away.  Unfortunately, it didn’t, and by seven o’ clock on Sunday evening he’d always end up seated at his kitchen table with paperwork spread everywhere, fidgeting and finding any way he could to procrastinate, before finally getting it all done in one fell swoop at two a.m.

But that was before Clint had found out.  Phil had tried to keep his unadulterated hatred for paperwork under wraps because he needed to set an example, but Barton had a way of finding out things he wasn’t supposed to know.  It was a few months after they started dating when Clint decided that he wanted to spend the night at Phil’s and didn’t bother to warn him first, and he had let himself in the front door to find Phil actually banging his forehead against the table in protest.

After about ten minutes of laughter and then an explanation, Clint had sat down to help him, and then ended up doing all but two or three pages.  Phil had considered calling him out on his perfect ability to forge Phil’s signature, but then decided that worked in his favor, if Clint was willing to do his paperwork.  As he worked, Clint had explained that he actually kind of liked doing paperwork, because it gave him something to do to settle his brain between missions.

He called it therapeutic, like an outlet that allowed him to look back at his actions through a filter and see what he’d done wrong.  He looked at what he could have done better and filed it away on paper and into the corner of his mind. He said paperwork helped him confront his faults, acknowledge them, and make an effort to do better in the future, all without the added pressure of self-flagellation.  Plus, it helped to slow his brain down so he could stop thinking enough to sleep. 

After that, it became a thing.  Clint would go home with Phil on Friday nights and they’d curl up on the couch together, Clint with his feet propped up on the coffee table so he could use his thighs as a table and Phil with his feet tucked under Clint, just because he wanted to touch him.  Phil would catch up on his weekly television shows; a mix of bad reality TV and sci-fi greats, and Clint would catch both of them up on their paperwork.  And so it had been for almost ten years, that one tradition staying solid in the face of their marriage, the establishment of the Avengers, Phil’s near-fatal injury, and moving in to Stark tower.

Tonight was no different, finding the two of them settled in their usual positions on the couch in their apartment, Phil in his glasses and Captain America pajama pants, wearing the “I <3 Hawkeye” shirt Bruce had bought for him for Christmas.  Clint was similarly attired, in an old t-shirt that had a hole by the hem and SHIELD sweatpants, his hair washed clean of the gel he usually wore in it during the day.  It was comfortable and it was home and Phil was happy.

He didn’t realize that he’d been staring at the way Clint’s tongue kept flicking out of his mouth and running across his lower lip until a commercial came on, much louder than the program he’d been watching, and the volume made him jump.  Clint chuckled quietly, casting a glance and a smile at Phil that clearly said he’d been caught staring, before looking back down to the stack of papers in his lap.  It was substantially smaller than the one he’d started with a few hours ago, but there was still about a half hour’s worth of work ahead of him.

Phil tried turning his attention back to his show, but every few minutes he found himself looking back to Clint, his eyes narrowed in concentration, lips red from being chewed on, tongue flicking out to wet his lips every once in a while.  He managed to behave himself for ten minutes before he just couldn’t take it anymore.  He sat up, pulling his feet out from under Clint’s rump so that he could tuck them under him and lean in to Clint’s space and press a kiss right under his ear.  He purposely set his weight against Clint’s arm to make it more difficult for him to write, but Clint just switched to his right hand, not even looking up from his paper.

Phil wasn’t deterred, pressing more lingering kisses to Clint’s neck and jaw and sneaking an arm around his waist so that he could slip his hand under the hem of Clint’s t-shirt and rest his palm against the hard muscle of his abdomen.  He felt Clint’s stomach clench under his palm and smirked, knowing that he was distracting Clint more than he wanted to let on.  He scraped his teeth gently over Clint’s jaw and then soothed the action with the flat of his tongue, and Clint let out a little groan.  Success!

“Baby, I’ve got to finish this,” Clint reminded him, grabbing Phil’s wrist and gently removing his hand from under Clint’s shirt.  Phil scowled at him, sneaking his other hand up the back of Clint’s shirt in retaliation, which caused Clint to wiggle away from him.

“Phil, seriously,” he admonished. “I’ve got about twenty minutes of work left, and then we can have all the sex you want.”

“I don’t want to wait,” Phil told him, wrapping his arms around Clint as best he could with the couch in the way. “You look so good, concentrating and licking your lips.”  He pressed another kiss to Clint’s neck and then murmured in his ear, “Wanna fuck you.”

Clint groaned loudly, and for a second it seemed like he was going to fold, but then he let out a deep breath and shook his head.

“If you stop me now, I’m going to have to finish in the morning,” Clint told him. “And then there will be no time for morning sex.”

This gave Phil pause.  Clint clearly knew his audience, because slow, sleepy morning sex was Phil’s absolute favorite kind of sex.  He liked how Clint’s eyes drooped and the way he whimpered and moaned unrestrained but quiet.  When he was tired, Clint pretty much let Phil position him any way he wanted, and it was truly excellent.

“Twenty minutes?” he asked.

“Fifteen, if I rush,” Clint assured him.

“Then rush,” Phil told him seriously, “Because if you’re not in that bed in fifteen minutes, I’m starting without you.”


End file.
